Dear god why
If there’s one thing that Donald Trump enjoys more than MAGA-ing, it’s golf. He’s spent 139 days of his presidency so far at his own or other golf clubs, hitting the links at least 63 times during those visits. The man also famously hates vegetables, and more or less believes that the human body is a battery that runs on McDonald’s.
So what happens when one of President Deals’ golf courses attempts to entice potential members with a vegetable dish? Well… this.
Spotted on Splinter, the deleted tweet shows is the what happens when an individual with no culinary training who had been recently lobotomized and forced to watch hours of Food Network programming Clockwork Orange-style is commanded to prepare vegetables at gunpoint. It is an attempt at gourmet dining devoid of both art, substance, and sustenance. A precocious child playing with their food could have conceivably outdone this dish. To fully comprehend the depths of its inexplicable horror, we have to go deeper.
The centerpiece of the vegetable course appears to be the laziest spring roll of all time, “deconstructed” to the point that it looks more like a poorly-rolled joint stuffed with watercress. You can already imagine Eric and Don Jr. picking this thing up and pantomiming the act of smoking weed complete with terrible Jamaican accents. It’s topped by a row of sad cherry tomato slices, presumably an effort to brighten up the plate.
Then there’s the revolting pile of yellow ooze. Is it a brighter take on Hollandaise? Expired mayonnaise? The liquefied souls of poor people who couldn’t raise enough money on Kickstarter to get a new kidney in time? We can’t say for sure, but there’s a nonzero chance that this thing is haunted. It is probably the closest you can get—visually, at least—to eating Trump’s hair, so at least a handful of Hudson Valley members will wolf this thing down in the pursuit of pure Dragon Energy.
What’s a vegetable dish without some random kernels of corn strewn about? Nothing, says the Trump National Golf Club kitchen staff as they sweep this part of the dish off of the floor and onto a plate. There isn’t much corn here because the rest of it was given to a deserving billionaire who very much needed it to feed his prized miniature horse. I’m sure you’ll understand.
I don’t know what the hell that bark is doing there. Is it edible? Is it to be used to discipline ungrateful children who don’t deserve any sweets? Truly, this is the stuff of nightmares.
Though odd, the copy accompanying the photo works. Because the only people who would order this and think “this is good to me, I am enjoying this” are pathologically insane Trump sycophants with deep-seated issues that can be traced back to the childhood dinner table. Ordering this thing won’t make your mother love you, and it certainly isn’t how America will be made great again.
In a way, it’s an apt metaphor for the Trump administration: a vague approximation of what a luxurious, sophisticated dining experience should be, prepared by someone whose brain is melting out of their ears.